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THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 


BY 
CONSTANCE  D.  MACKAY 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

THE  SILVER  THREAD 

PATRIOTIC  PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS 

HOW  TO  PRODUCE  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 

THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

COSTUMES  AND  SCENERY  FOR  AMATEURS 

THE  FOREST  PRINCESS 

THE  LITTLE  THEATRE  IN  AMERICA 

PATRIOTIC  DRAMA  IN  YOUR  TOWN 

FRANKLIN 


The  Lady  of  the  Portrait 

From  a   painting  by   Sir  Joshua   Reynolds 


THE    BEAU    OF    BATH 

AND  OTHER   ONE-ACT    PLAYS 
OF  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY  LIFE 


BY 

CONSTANCE  D'ARCY  MACKAY 

/M 


AUTHOR  OF 


11  Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs  ,*  *  il  Patriotic  Plays  and 

Pageants"  "The  House  of  the  Heart,  and  Other 

Plays  for  Children^ "  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED   FROM   PORTRAITS 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1915, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  September,  1915 

No  performance  of  these  plays  may  be  given  without  full  ac- 
knowledgment to  the  author  and  publishers.  Where  a  play  is 
not  the  title  play  of  the  volume,  as  in  the  case  of  Ashes  of  Roses. 
acknowledgment  should  be  made  to  read  as  follows:  "  By  Con- 
stance  D'Arcy  Mackay  ;  from  The  Beau  of  Bath  and  Other  One- 
Act  Plays;  Copyright,  1915,  by  Henry  Holt  and  Company ; 
Produced  by  arrangement  with  the  publishers."  Where  a  play 
is  named  in  the  title  of  the  volume  of  course  the  acknowledg- 
ment need  not  state  what  volume  it  is  from. 

Amateurs  may  produce  the  plays  in  this  volume  upon  pay- 
ment to  the  publishers  of  $5.00  for  each  and  every  perform- 
ance of  any  one  play.  Professional  actors  must  apply  for 
acting  rights  to  the  author,  in  care  of  the  publishers. 

1st  Printing,  Aug.,  1915  2nd  Printing,  Jan.,  1920 

3rd  Printing,  Nov.,  1921  4th  Printing,  March,  1923 

Sth  Printing,  Jan.,  1926  6th  Printing,  May,  1927 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U     *.    A.    BY 

QUINN    A    BODEN    COMPANY,    INC. 

RAHWAY.    N.    J. 


PREFACE 

THE  one-act  plays  in  verse  which  this  volume  con- 
tains are  dramatic  miniatures  of  some  of  the  notables 
of  the  eighteenth  century  in  England.  All  of  the  plays 
are  of  the  same  period.  Therefore,  if  so  desired,  three 
or  four  of  them  may  be  given  consecutively  with  no 
change  of  scene  by  the  simple  expedient  of  moving  the 
furniture  and  having  different  lighting.  Watteau- 
like  screens,  a  clavier  for  a  harpsichord,  the  right  use 
of  chintz  and  brocade,  firelight,  candlelight  or  moon- 
light skillfully  managed,  and  the  thing  is  done! 

Little  theatres,  theatres  intimes,  and  studio  stages 
are  constantly  showing  that  atmosphere  may  be  cre- 
ated by  the  most  simple  effects,  whether  for  amateur 
or  professional.  And  surely  the  atmosphere  of  no 
century  can  be  conveyed  more  easily  by  a  mere  touch 
than  that  of  the  eighteenth,  with  its  wits  and  belles, 
its  powder  and  patches,  its  mannered  elegance,  its 
brocades  and  lace. 


iii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  BEAU  OF  BATH    ......      3 

THE  SILVER  LINING    ...       .       .       .13 

ASHES  OF  ROSES  .  .  .       .       .    27 

GRETNA  GREEN -41 

COUNSEL  RETAINED 53 

THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS      ...     75 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  Lady  of  the  Portrait  .        .    Frontispiece 

Miss  Linley 41 

Edmund  Burke 53 

George  Romney 75 


THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 


THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

CHARACTERS 

BEAU  NASH 

JEPSON,  his  servant 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  PORTRAIT 

PLACE:  Bath. 

TIME  :  Christmas  Eve,  1750. 

SCENE:  A  room  in  the  Beau's  apartment. 

Furniture  and  hangings  of  faded  splendor.  Candles 
gleam  in  silver  sconces.  Christmas  holly  hangs  here 
and  there.  At  the  left  a  fire  burns  on  the  hearth,  first 
with  small  blue  dancing  flames,  then  deepening  to  a 
rosy  glow. 

At  the  right  there  is  an  inlaid  desk  with  candles 
burning  on  it.  Toward  background  a  door  opening 
into  another  room  of  the  apartment. 

In  the  center  background  hangs  the  life-sized  por- 
trait of  a  lady  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the  early  eight- 
eenth century.  Her  dress  is  a  shimmer  of  rose-colored 
satin.  Beneath  her  faintly  powdered  hair  her  face  is 
young,  dawn-tinted,  starry-eyed.  There  are  no  other 
portraits  in  the  room. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Beau  Nash  is  discovered 
seated  at  a  round  lacquered  table,  center  foreground. 

3 


4  THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

He  is  an  old  man,  still  very  erect  and  stately,  very 
much  the  great  dandy.  The  soft  light  of  the  room 
hides  whatever  ravages  of  time  there  may  be  in  his 
face.  It  also  hides  the  fact  that  the  seams  of  the  black 
velvet  suit  he  is  wearing  are  growing  gray,  and  that 
the  creamy  lace  ruffles  that  grace  his  sleeves  and  jabot 
have  been  very  often  mended.  Near  him  stands  his 
servant,  an  old  man  slightly  stooped,  wearing  a  shabby 
brown  cloth  suit  with  a  buff  vest  and  tarnished  gold 
buttons.  He  looks  at  his  master  adoringly. 

JEPSON 
And  is  that  all,  sir? 

BEAU  NASH 
Bring  my  snuffbox.    So! 
Where  are  the  cards? 

JEPSON 

(bringing  a  pack  of  cards  on  a  silver  tray). 
Here,  sin 

BEAU  NASH 

Now  you  may  ga 

'(Jepson  pauses). 
You  hesitate? 

JEPSON 

(with  feeling). 
Why,  sir,  I'm  loath  to  see 
You  sitting  here  alone. 


THE  BEAU  OF  BATH  5 

BEAU  NASH 

This  room,  for  me, 
Is  filled  with  memories. 

JEPSON 

Aye,  sir,  I  know. 

I've  served  you  thirty  years  and  seen  the  flow 
And  ebb  of  fortune,  and  I  cannot  bear 
Night  after  night  to 

BEAU  NASH 

Jepson,  all  that's  fair 
Passes  and  fades.     Even  the  eagle's  wings 
Grow  slow  with  age.     Content  with  little  things 
Is  wisest. 

[Jepson  fetches  a  score  pad  and  pencil  from 
the  desk,  and  stands  waiting  with  them  at 
his  master  s  table. 

JEPSON 
Yes,  sir. 

BEAU  NASH 
(watching  fire). 

See  how  strangely  blue 
The  little  flames  are.    //  it  should  be  true  .  .  . 

JEPSON 
(puzzled). 
Sir? 


6  THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

BEAU  NASH 

That  a  spell  is  wrought  by  candle  light 
And  gleaming  flame  when  it  shines  faintly  bright. 
When  hours  grow  small  and  embers  lower  burn 
On  Christmas  night  they  say  old  loves  return. 
'Tis  merely  folly,  Jepson.    Ne'er  again 
Shall  I  behold  that  brilliant  courtly  train 
Of  wits  and  beauties,  fops  and  gamesters  gay— 
All  that  made  life  in  Bath  when  I  held  sway. 
Time  was,  my  nod  would  stop  the  Prince's  dance: 
A  belle  was  made  by  my  admiring  glance : 
'Twas  I  who  set  the  fashions  in  brocade, 
But — laurels  wither  and  the  roses  fade, 
And  now  I  sit  alone.    My  reign  is  done. 
The  wits  and  fops  have  vanished  one  by  one. 

JEPSON 
(moved). 

You  were  the  King  of  all,  sir.    High  and  low 
Admired  you. 

BEAU  NASH 

Thank  you,  Jepson. 
(Takes  score  pad  and  pencil.) 

You  may  go. 

[Exit  Jepson,  left,  quietly  and  reluctantly,  with 
a  backward  glance  at  his  master  who  still 
dreams  at  fire. 

Everything  passes.    Naught  remains  of  all 
Except  that  portrait  smiling  from  the  wall. 

[He  crosses  to  the  portrait,  candlestick  in  hand. 


THE  BEAU  OF  BATH  7 

Disdainful  Rosamond,  you  still  look  down 
As  when  you  were  the  toast  of  all  the  town. 

Lips  red  as  holly,  eyes  so  archly  bright 

Nay,  but  your  beauty  dims  the  candle's  light ! 

[He  puts  down  the  candlestick. 
'Tis  vain  to  wish  for  things  that  may  not  be ; 
Yet  could  you  for  one  hour  come  back  to  me 
Would  I  not  say  all  that  I  left  unsaid 
In  days  gone  by  ?    But  you  are  long  since  dead, 
While  I,  grown  old,  above  the  embers  cower, 

[He  goes  back  to  his  chair. 
Or  play  a  game  to  help  me  pass  the  hour 
When  shadows  flicker  .   .   .  and  the  candles  blink 
Until  I  drowse  .   .   .  and  .   .   . 

[He  nods  and  dozes  in  his  chair.  The  Lady 
of  the  Portrait  moves,  smiles,  slowly  and 
gracefully  steps  down  from  the  portrait, 
silently  crosses  to  the  table,  her  eyes  on 
the  Beau.  She  catches  up  a  handful  of 
cards. 

THE  LADY 

'Tis  my  play,  I  think 
If  I  see  rightly  by  the  candle's  gleam. 


BEAU  NASH 
(in  a  whisper). 


Rosamond! 


8  THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

THE  LADY 
(lightly). 

Well,  sir,  do  you  always  dream 
When  you  play  cards  with  ladies?     If  'tis  so 
I  think  'twere  best  to  call  my  chair  and  go. 

BEAU  NASH 

(bewildered,  passing  a  hand  across  his  eyes). 
I  thought  .  .  .  that  you  were  dead  .  .  .  and  I  was  old ! 

THE  LADY 
(still  lightly). 

Fie,  sir,  to  think  that  hearts  like  ours  grow  cold ! 
And  when  I  hear  you  call  upon  my  name 
Shall  I  not  step  down  from  that  gilded  frame 
To  spend  an  hour  of  Christmas  night  with  you? 
Come!     Let  us  gossip  of  the  folk  we  knew! 
Lord  Foppington,  whose  wit  I  did  adore 

BEAU  NASH 
I  thought  Lord  Foppington  a  monstrous  bore! 

But  Kitty  Cavendish 'Faith,  one  mad  night 

We  drank  her  health  from  out  her  slipper  white. 

THE  LADY 

(with  spirit). 

I  vow  then  you  were  tipsy,  one  and  all, 
For  Kitty's  slipper  was  by  no  means  small. 


THE  BEAU  OF  BATH  .      9 

BEAU  NASH 

Nay,  let's  have  done  with  thrust  and  counter  thrust! 
Ah,  Rosamond,  in  days  gone  by  you  must 
Have  known  I  loved  you,  yet  you  were  so  cold. 

THE  LADY 
(very  low). 
I  had  been  warmer,  sir,  had  you  been  bold! 

BEAU  NASH 

Bold!    At  your  feet  dukes  laid  their  coronets, 
I  could  but  offer  you  some  gambling  debts. 
These,  and  the  worship  of  a  world-worn  heart 
Would  scarce  pass  coinage  in  Dame  Fashion's  mart. 
So  I  fought  down  my  love  for  you,  and  yet 
Your  slightest  gesture  in  the  minuet 
Would  stir  my  pulses.    With  a  covert  glance 
I  watched  you  through  the  mazes  of  the  dance, 

So  fair,  so  radiant But  what  need  for  me 

To  tell  you  of  my  heart's  poor  comedy. 

Is  that  a  tear  which  falls  for  it,  my  sweet? 

THE  LADY 

(very  sweetly  and  gently). 
A  tear  is  naught,  sir. 

(She  turns  to  him.) 

Ah,  must  I  repeat 

My  love  in  words  before  you  will  believe 
That  I  too  loved  in  vain? 
(As  their  eyes  meet  her  meaning  grows  clear  to  him.) 

Now  I  must  leave, 
For  'tis  not  long  until  the  clock  strikes  one. 


io  THE  BEAU  OF  BATH 

BEAU  NASH 
And  you  loved  me! 

THE  LADY 

Our  hour  is  almost  done. 
I  leave  you  to  your  firelight  and  your  chair, 
And  to  your  game  that's  always — solitaire ! 

\With  delicate  tread,  moving  silently  as  a  ghost, 
the  Lady  steps  back  into  the  portrait.  The 
Beau  dozes  again.  The  rosy  glow  of  the  fire 
dies,  leaving  the  room  in  utter  twilight. 
Jepson  enters. 

JEPSON 

'Tis  bedtime,  sir.    The  clock  struck  long  ago. 
The  embers  on  the  hearth  are  burning  low. 
Even  the  wav'ring  candle  feebly  gleams. 

BEAU  NASH 

(with  a  startled  glance  about  the  shadowy  room). 
So  late!  ...  So  dim!  ...  I  have  been  dreaming — 
Dreams ! 


THE  CURTAIN   SLOWLY  FALLS 


THE  SILVER  LINING 


THE  SILVER  LINING 
CHARACTERS 

FANNY  BURNEY 

RICHARD  BURNEY,  her  uncle 

CEPHAS,  an  old  servant 

PLACE:  Chessington. 

TIME:  7775. 

SCENE  :  Library  in  Mr.  Crisp's  house. 

A  pleasant  room,  a  trifle  littered  with  books  and 
papers.  All  across  the  background,  windows  curtained 
in  palely  flowered  damask.  A  hearth  at  left,  with  a 
fire  burning  rosily.  Brass  andirons.  A  bellows.  Near 
the  hearth,  facing  audience,  a  dark-wooden  settle  with 
a  high  back.  It  is  handsomely  carved  and  appears  to 
be  quite  old.  Candles  in  silver  candlesticks  are  lighted 
on  the  hearth  shelf,  and  there  are  also  framed  sil- 
houettes standing  there. 

At  right,  near  background,  a  door  opening  into 
another  room  of  the  house.  Also  at  left,  towards  fore- 
ground, a  round  table  with  a  lighted  candelabra,  sev- 
eral drawings  in  striking  black  and  white.  A  brass 
inkstand,  sand,  quill  pens,  etc.  All  along  the  right 
wall  a  dark  bookcase  full  to  running  over  with  books. 
Its  top  shelf  is  piled  high  with  them.  Their  covers  are 

13 


I4  THE  SILVER  LINING 

mostly  brown  and  musty.     There  are  also  black,  dark 
blue  and  green  ones,  but  none  in  bright  colors. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Fanny  Burney,  rather 
small,  delicate,  with  a  girlishly  pretty  face  and  softly 
curling  unpowdered  hair  sits  writing  at  the  table,  a 
small  work-bag  and  sampler  lying  on  her  lap.  She 
wears  a  pale  yellow  dress,  flowered  in  white,  over  a 
pale  yellow  petticoat,  and  a  white  lace  fichu.  Black 
velvet  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  about  her  wrists.  She 
is  deep  in  her  work  when  there  is  the  sound  of  someone 
opening  the  door  at  right.  With  amazing  swiftness 
Fanny  drops  her  pen,  sweeps  the  drawings  over  what 
she  is  writing,  drops  her  sampler  and  bag  on  top  of 
them,  and  is  crocheting  when  her  uncle,  Richard 
Burney,  enters.  He  is  a  tall,  portly,  ruddy  man,  with 
a  most  important  manner.  He  wears  a  handsome 
plum-colored  traveling  suit,  and  carries  a  long  church- 
warden pipe  which  he  lights  without  a  "  by  your 
leave  "  at  his  first  opportunity. 

,TT  „   ~  RICHARD  BURNEY 

Well,  Fanny! 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(surprised). 
Uncle! 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Cephas  welcomed  me. 
There's  no  one  else  about  as  I  can  see. 

(Fanny  drops  a  flurried  curtsey.) 
Where's  Mrs.  Cast? 


THE  SILVER  LINING  15 

FANNY  BURNEY 

In  bed.    And  Daddy  Crisp 
Has  gone  to  London. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Cephas,  with  his  lisp, 
Has  so  informed  me.    And  I  also  know 
Your  father  left  here  just  three  days  ago, 
So  I  have  missed  him.    Lord !    What  a  to-do ! 
I'm  just  from  town  myself.     Child,  how  are  you? 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(prettily). 
Quite  well,  and  hope  my  kinsfolk  are  the  same. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(puffing  at  his  pipe  before  the  fire). 
Um.    Yes. 

FANNY  BURNEY 
What  news? 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

The  whole  town  rings  with  fame 
Of  a  new  author,  who  has  writ  a  book 
Called  "  Evelina."    Everywhere  you  look 
You  see  it  advertised.    Yet  no  one  knows 
The  author's  name  and  rumor  madly  goes 
Naming  first  this  one,  and  then  that  one. 


16  THE  SILVER  LINING 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(passionately). 

Oh, 
If  they  should  ever  guess !    (She  grows  pale.) 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

They're  sure  to  know 
Sooner  or  later.    Burke  sat  up  all  night 
To  read  it.    Said  if  he  could  guess  aright 
The  author's  name,  that  fifty  pounds  he'd  give, 
While  Dr.  Johnston  cried  out:  "As  I  live 
I  can't  forget  the  book.     It's  my  delight!  " 
Why,  Fanny !    How  you  look !    First  red,  then  white. 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(trying  to  speak  without  a  tremor). 

You  see,  in  Chessington,  our  life  is  dull, 
And  everything  you  say  seems  wonderful, 
And  stirs  the  heart  like  bells  of  London  town. 
And  so  this — "  Katherina  "  wins  renown? 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Nay,  "  Evelina  "  so  the  novel's  named. 
The  author  who  has  written  it  is  famed 
Forever.    'Tis  a  puzzle.    No  one  can 
Be  positive  who  is  the  lucky  man. 
If,  when  I've  read  it  I  have  found  'twill  do 
For  you  to  read,  'twill  be  permitted  you. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  17 

Thank  you. 


FANNY  BURNEY 
(demurely). 


RICHARD  BURNEY 
How's  Charles? 

FANNY  BURNEY 

..  ,  My  father's  vastly  well, 

And  busy. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
Humph.     I  think  that  I  could  tell 
That  without  asking.    Times  are  hard.    I  saw 
A  friend  of  Charles'  last  night — young  Clapperclaw 
Who  swears  that  Clark  wrote  "  Evelina."    Fool! 
But  when  I  said  'twas  more  like  Fielding's  school 
Mrs.  Thrale  looked  at  me  the  oddest  way, 
Said:  "Did  you  get  the  note  I  sent  to-day? 
Go  search  for  '  Evelina '  nearer  home. 
If  you  would  find  her  youve  not  jar  to  roam" 
(Fanny  turns  and  looks  at  himf  aghast;  but  he  con- 
tinues placidly.) 

I  think  she  means  that  Anstey's  written  it. 
But,  lord,  I'm  sure  that  he  has  not  the  wit! 
Although  the  strangest  people  try  to  write: 
Children  and  fools.     I've  not  forgot  the  night 
Your  father  found  you  at  it,  clipped  your  wing, 
Forbade  such  nonsense  and  then  burned  the  thing, 
And  brought  you  to  your  senses.    Pen  and  ink 
Are  not  for  women,  but  for  men  who  think. 
Females  are  cackling  geese.     'Tis  only  men 
Who  have  the  strength  of  mind  to  wield  a  pen. 


18  THE  SILVER  LINING 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(picking  up  pen  from  table). 
And  yet  this  pen  is  made  from  a  goose  feather! 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

(frowning). 

Well,  pens  and  women  do  not  go  together. 
A  bluestocking  is  a  disgrace.    (Yawns.)    Heigho ! 
The  hour  grows  late.    I'll  take  my  candle. 

[He  crosses  to  table,  takes  candle,  and  pauses 
to  pick  up  drawings  for  inspection.  As  he 
lifts  one  it  catches  on  the  manuscript  beneath, 
and  the  latter  sweeps  to  the  floor,  and  falls 
with  pages  outspread. 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(with  a  stifled  exclamation). 

Oh! 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

(puzzled;  then  angry). 

What's  this?    (Picks  up  a  few  pages.)    Great  heavens ! 

Fanny!    Well,  I  swear 

You  have  been  writing!    And  you've  hid  it  there 
Behind  your  sampler.    Wait  till  Charles  hears  this! 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(imploring  him). 
Oh,  Uncle  Richard,  if  you'll 


THE  SILVER  LINING  19 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Silence,  miss! 

You  should  be  shamed  to  look  me  in  the  face. 
Thank  God  that  no  one  else  knows  this  disgrace. 
How  far  has  this  thing  gone  ?    Come,  answer  me. 
Who  else  has  seen  this  rubbish  besides  me? 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(terrified). 
Oh,  Uncle 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(with  mounting  rage). 

Wait  till  Charles  and  I  confer! 
Who  else? 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(between  sobs). 
I've  sent  it  to  a  publisher. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

(furiously). 
Fanny !    Don't  tell  me  you  have  been  so  bold ! 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(sobbing  wildly). 

Oh, — worse — than — that !     The — book's — already — 
sold! 


20  THE  SILVER  LINING 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(starting  violently). 

Sold!    Why,  God  bless  me !    Fanny,  you  don't  say 
That  you  got  money  for  it?     (He  stares  at  her,  open- 
mouthed.) 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(with  a  fresh  burst  of  tears). 

Yes,  to-day 
A — check — came 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(eagerly). 
For  how  much? 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(choked  with  sobs). 

Two — hundred — pounds.* 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(staggered). 

Two  hun Why,  Fanny !  I  am  dreaming !  Zounds ! 

When  did  you  write? 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(struggling  for  self-control). 

A  little,  every  day. 
I  covered  it  with  samplers  and  crochet. 

(She  wipes  her  eyes.) 
*  This  is  a  slight  exaggeration  for  the  sake  of  dramatic  effectiveness. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  21 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(quite  mollified). 
What's  the  book  called? 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(trembling). 

Tis  "  Evelina." 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(stunned). 

You 
Wrote  "Evelina"?    (Fanny  nods.)    Lord!    What  a 

to-do ! 

When  Burke  hears  this!    That  Clapperclaw's  a  fool! 
(With  triumph.) 

I  knew  the  book  came  from  some  other  school! 

(Expands  as  if  talking  to  imaginary  people.) 

II  My  niece,  the  authoress  ..." 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(approaching  him  humbly). 

Uncle,  I  know 

I've  been  deceitful,  but  I  loved  it  so — 
My  book.    Forgive  me.     I  won't  write  again. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Eh  ?    Oh,  tut,  tut !    I  wouldn't  cause  you  pain 
For  your — er — fault. 


22  THE  SILVER  LINING 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(with  emotion). 

Uncle,  if  you  could  dream 

All  that  it  meant  to  me,  the  thrill — the  gleam — 
You'll  never  guess  what  dull  hours  I've  beguiled. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

(patronizingly). 

There !   There !   Remember  you're  my  niece,  dear  child. 
One  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  what's  one's  own. 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(with  quick  gratitude). 
Oh,  Uncle! 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(condescendingly). 
If  you  want  to  be  alone 
Sometimes,  and  write,  I've  no  objection — none. 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(radiant). 
Uncle! 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
(to  himself). 

And  when  I  think  how  quick  it's  done 

Just  write  a  book,  and  make  two  hundred  pounds! 

[Cephas  appears  at  door  right,  an  old  man  in 
snuff-colored  livery.  He  carries  a  candle, 
and  an  iron  ring  with  some  large  keys  on  it. 


THE  SILVER  LINING  23 

CEPHAS 

Miss  Fanny 

FANNY  BURNEY 
(to  her  uncle). 

Cephas  wants  to  make  his  rounds 
And  lock  the  doors. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Then,  child,  good  night. 

[Fanny  takes  a  candle  from  the  table.  Mo- 
tions to  Cephas  to  go.  He  exits,  right,  and 
Fanny  drops  a  curtsey  to  her  uncle. 

FANNY  BURNEY 

Good  night. 
RICHARD  BURNEY 
(intercepting  her). 

You  think  that  you  might  write  some  more  as  bright 
As  "Evelina"? 

FANNY  BURNEY 

(modestly). 
I  can  try. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 
Yes,  do. 

[Again  Fanny  etches  him  a  dutiful  curtsey. 
He  smiles  at  her  benignly  between  puffs  of 
smoke  as  he  stands  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 


24  THE  SILVER  LINING 

She  exits,  right,  with  her  candle.  Richard 
Burney  puffs  complacently,  yet  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  must  speak  aloud  in  order  to 
give  vent  to  his  feelings.  His  sentences  come 
between  enjoyable  whiffs. 

RICHARD  BURNEY 

Well,  even  if  the  hussy's  socks  are  blue 
She's  my  own  niece.    One  shouldn't  be  repining 
To  find  blue  stockings  have  a  silver  lining. 
The  little  baggage !    Lord !    Two  hundred  pounds ! 
Well,  Charles  can  spend  it  fixing  up  his  grounds! 


QUICK  CURTAIN 


ASHES  OF  ROSES 


ASHES  OF  ROSES 
CHARACTERS 

KITTY  CLIVE 

HORACE  WALPOLE 

PHYLLIS 

ROXANE,  maid  to  Mistress  Clive 

Call  Boy 
PLACE:  London. 
TIME:  A  Spring  night  in  1741. 
SCENE:  The  theatre  dressing-room  of  Kitty  Clive. 

The  bare  white-washed  walls  of  the  dressing-room 
are  almost  hidden  by  the  softly  tinted  costumes  that 
hang  from  their  pegs.  There  are  also  shimmering 
cloaks,  a  wig  or  so.  A  mask  and  domino.  A  mock- 
ermine  robe.  In  background,  right,  a  door  with  a  light 
cloak  hanging  on  it.  When  this  door  is  opened,  the 
dingy  backs  of  stacked  scenery  show  dimly.  Against 
the  wall  of  left  background  a  spindle-legged  dressing 
table  glittering  with  silver  paste  boxes,  brushes,  smell- 
ing salts  bottles,  powder  boxes,  all  of  which  are 
reflected  with  double  glitter  in  the  mirror  that  hangs 
above  them.  Lighted  candles  in  silver  sconces  jut  from 
each  side  of  the  mirror.  There  are  six  candles  in  each 
sconce,  and  their  illumination  falls  like  a  soft  glory 

27 


28  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

over  the  room.  There  are  two  damask  chairs  with 
gilt  legs,  one  for  Kitty  Clive,  and  one  for  any  chance 
visitor.  The  one  for  Kitty  Clive  is  in  front  of  the 
dressing  table.  The  other  stands  near  and  is  covered 
with  a  frou-frou  of  stage  dresses. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Kitty  Clive  is  seated  at  the 
table  with  Roxane  in  attendance.  The  actress  is 
sumptuous  in  blue  and  silver  brocade,  worn  over  a 
white  satin  petticoat.  Her  hair  is  dressed  very  high, 
and  is  white  with  powder.  A  necklace  of  pearls  and 
diamonds  glitters  about  her  throat.  Her  cheeks  and 
lips  are  rouged.  Her  great  eyes  sparkle  under  pen- 
ciled eyebrows.  Her  hands  are  thick  with  rings. 
On  her  white  satin  high-heeled  slippers  flash  the  most 
brilliant  of  buckles.  Her  white  silk  stockings  have 
silver  clocks.  Roxane,  a  slim,  sprightly  creature,  wears 
an  old  rose  dress  looped  over  an  old  rose  and  white- 
striped  petticoat.  A  white  kerchief  and  a  frilled  white 
cap  on  her  dark  hair.  A  saucy  white  apron.  She  holds 
a  hare's  foot  mounted  in  silver  and  a  silver  patch  box. 

CLIVE 

Quick  with  the  hare's  foot !    Lud,  your  hands  are  slow ! 
Nay,  I  spoke  sharply.    Next  the  patches.    So! 
Fasten  this  bit  of  ribbon  to  the  right, 
And  set  this  diamond  crescent  well  in  sight. 
Then  for  this  side-wise  curl  more  powder  bring. 
How  look  I  now? 

ROXANE 

Mistress,  as  fair  as  Spring. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES  29 

CLIVE 

"  As  fair  as  Spring !  "    God,  what  an  age  ago 
Since  Spring  and  I  were  friends!    I  used  to  know 
The  banks  whereon  the  early  violets  grew 
Lifting  their  little  faces  deeply  blue — — 
Yet  not  more  deeply  blue  than  a  lad's  eyes 
In  those  sweet  days  ere  town  had  made  me  wise, 
Ere  I  had  learned  that  flattery  hides  a  dart, 
And  fame  feeds  vanity,  but  not  the  heart.  .   .   . 
Oh,  those  far  days.  .   .    . 

(She  speaks  more  to  herself  than  to  Roxane.) 

ROXANE 

(as  a  rap  sounds  on  the  door). 
Mistress ! 

CLIVE 
(rousing  herself). 

r,.,  i_.  .  'Tis  Walpole's  rap. 

Bid  him  come  in. 

[Roxane  opens  the  door.  Walpole  enters,  a 
distinguished-looking  man  with  great  charm 
of  manner.  He  wears  a  suit  of  gray  satin 
with  the  customary  ruffles  and  flowered 
waistcoat.  His  tri-corn  hat  is  tucked  under 
his  arm.  His  powdered  wig  is  almost  as 
elaborate  as  that  of  Clive  herself. 

I  knew  you  by  your  tap! 

[She  does  not  rise,  but  extends  her  handt  which 
he  kisses  gallantly. 


30  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

WALPOLE 
My  tap  is  ever  at  the  Queen  and  Star. 

CLIVE 

Fie,  Horace!    What  a  flatterer  you  are! 
How  many  occupations  you  must  fit 
To  start  as  tapster,  and  to  end  as  wit! 
A  courtier  also! 

WALPOLE 
Never  that  with  you. 

CLIVE 

(to  Roxane). 
Go  wait,  Roxane,  and  call  me  ere  my  cue. 

[Exit  Roxane.     Clive  turns  to  Walpole  with 

genuine  feeling. 
My  deep,  true  friend.    There  are  not  many  such. 

WALPOLE 
Pensive,  sweet  Kit? 

CLIVE 
(affecting  to  be  busy  with  powder  puff  and  hare's  foot). 

Nay,  Horace,  'tis  the  touch 
Of  an  old  sadness  that  the  waking  year 
Wakes  in  my  heart.    We  mouthe  and  stutter  here, 
Snatching  such  tinsel  as  the  town  may  fling, 
While  out  beyond  the  city  it  is  Spring  .   .   . 


ASHES  OF  ROSES  31 

Spring  in  the  country  lanes  where  lovers  stray, 
Spring!    And  the  Devon  hedgerows  white  with  May! 
Hedgerows  of  Devon !     (Turns  to  Walpole.)    Friend, 

there  used  to  be 

A  lad  who  walked  in  those  green  lanes  with  me 
And  spoke  of  love.    But  I — I  heard  the  town 
Calling  me  with  a  voice  that  would  not  down. 
I  heard.    I  followed.    London  gave  me  fame, 
And  all  has  changed  since  then — my  life,  my  name. 
And  yet  I  think  I  never  can  forget 
The  garden  where  we  parted.     It  was  set 
With  sweetbriar  roses.     'Faith,  I  know  not  why 
I  tell  you  fragments  of  a  day  gone  by, — 
Save  that  he  said:  "Dearheart,  lest  you  return, 
A  light  shall  ever  in  that  window  burn 
Through  all  the  years."    He  had  no  subtle  art, 
My  country  lover.    Yet,  against  my  heart 
To-night — his  rose!     (Takes  a  faded  rose  from  the 

bosom  of  her  dress.) 

Oh,  Horace,  you  who  know 
How  vain  and  false  and  empty  is  the  show, 
How  foul  the  fawning,  and  how  barbed  the  wit, 

Think  me  not  mad  to  say  farewell  to  it ! 

To  quit  the  footlights  for  that  candle's  gleam, 
To  seek  that  simple  faith  of  which  I  dream, 
And  find  that  the  world  lost  for  love  is  best 

ROXANE 

(rapping  briskly  and  then  entering). 
Mistress,  a  country  zany,  strangely  dressed, 
Would  speak  with  you.     She  comes  from  Devon  way. 


32  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

CLIVE 

(instantly  interested). 
From  Devon?     Bid  her  enter. 

WALPOLE 

(rising). 

I'll  not  stay. 
Adieu,  sweet  Clive. 

CLIVE 

(to  herself). 
From  Devon! 

(Suddenly  perceives  that  Walpole  is  going,  and  etches 
him  an  abstracted  curtsey.) 

Oh,  adieu! 

[Exit  Walpole.  Enter  Phyllis,  a  young  girl, 
with  a  sweet,  rustic  look.  She  wears  a  pale 
yellow  muslin  dress,  faintly  sprigged  with 
white  and  a  little  pale  yellow  straw  poke 
bonnet,  with  pale  yellow  strings  tied  under 
her  chin.  Long  lace  mitts.  A  little  white 
woolen  cloak  with  swansdown  edging.  From 
beneath  the  shade  of  her  poke  bonnet  her  eyes 
look  out  with  child-like  earnestness.  She  re- 
gards Clive  with  timid  awe. 

PHYLLIS 
My  name  is  Phyllis.    May  I  speak  with  you? 


ASHES  OF  ROSES  33 

CLIVE 

(looking  at  her  with  great  interest). 
Aye,  child.     Speak  freely. 

PHYLLIS 
(shyly  eager). 

Last  night  at  the  play 

I  watched  you.    'Twas  so  wondrous.    You  could  sway 
The  house  to  tears  or  laurrhter,  swift  as  flame! 
And  so  (though  father  knows  it  not)  I  came 
To-night  to  ask  your  counsel.    You  who  know 
The  secrets  of  the  heart — its  joy,  its  woe 

[Olive's  first  interest  has  waned  a  little.  She 
goes  on  with  her  toilet,  yet  speaks  very  kindly 
and  patiently  to  Phyllis. 

CLIVE 
Speak,  child.    But  give  me  not  too  hard  a  task. 

PHYLLIS 
(gaining  courage). 

Oh,  Mistress,  'tis  not  for  myself  I  ask! 
'Tis  for  a  friend 

CLIVE 

(absorbed  with  the  art  of  her  patch  box). 
A  friend 


34  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

PHYLLIS 

(hurriedly). 

He  lives  alone 

In  a  thatched  cottage  that  is  near  our  own, 
And  has  a  curious,  rambling  garden  set 
With  sweetbriar  roses 

CLIVE 
(momentarily  startled:  then  recovering  herself). 

Roses?     I  forget 

Proceed,  my  child. 

PHYLLIS 
(with  courage). 

And  by  a  windowpane 
Each  night,  for  years,  through  starlight  and  through 

rain 
Has  shone  a  lighted  candle. 

CLIVE 

(motionless). 
Ah! 

PHYLLIS 

(artlessly). 

They  say 

That  years  ago  his  true  love  went  her  way 
To  London  town:  and  lest  she  should  return 
And  find  the  way  all  dark,  he  needs  must  burn 
That  welcome  gleam.     Though  she  was  fain  to  roam 
He  felt  that  beacon  light  would  guide  her  home. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES  35 

CLIVE 

(deeply  moved). 
Home! 

PHYLLIS 
(timidly). 
Was  it  not  a  tender  thing  to  do  ? 

CLIVE 

(deeply). 
Aye. 

PHYLLIS 
(ardently). 

Oh,  there  seldom  beats  a  heart  so  true. 
He  loved  her  always. 

CLIVE 

(in  a  thrilled  voice,  staring  a-dream  at  something 
Phyllis  does  not  see). 
Always  .  .   .  ! 

PHYLLIS 

Until  now. 

Mistress,  indeed  I  scarce  can  tell  you  how 
He  came  to  care  for  me,  his  neighbor's  child. 
I  doubted  that  he  meant  it.    But  he  smiled 
And  said  that  after  storm  came  peace  and  rest. 
Great  loves  flamed  high,  but  simple  loves  were  best, 
And  sound  of  children's  voices  and  a  fire 

Lit  on  the  hearth  for  Autumn  days I  tire 

You  with  my  selfish  chatter,  Mistress? 


36  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

CLIVE 

(her  face  a  mask). 

Nay. 

(searchingly.) 
You  love  him? 

PHYLLIS 
(with  genuine  passion). 

Oh,  more  deep  than  words  can  say ! 
Yet  ever  through  my  heart  there  runs  a  fear — 
If  we  were  wed,  that  love  of  yester-year 
Might  sometime  lift  the  latch,  and  put  to  flight 
His  heart's  deep  peace — set  memory's  torch  alight — 
Re-ope  the  old  wound,  and  the  old,  old  pain 

CLIVE 

(after  a  moment). 
You  need  not  fear — she'll  not  return  again. 

PHYLLIS 

You  think  she  will  not — you  who  are  so  wise 

In  the  world's  ways  and  see  with  such  clear  eyes — 

You  think  she  will  not? 

CLIVE 

(faintly  smiling). 

I  am  quite,  quite  sure. 


ASHES  OF  ROSES  37 

PHYLLIS 
(radiantly). 

Oh,  Mistress,  for  such  counsel  words  are  poor 
To  give  in  thanks. 

CLIVE 

(rising  wearily ,  her  face  beneath  its  paint  suddenly 
grown  old). 

Nay,  child.     No  thanks,  I  pray. 
But  sometimes  .   .   .  when   the  year  is  white   with 

May  .  .  . 
Remember  me. 

[Phyllis  suddenly  bends  and  kisses  Olive's  hand, 
shyly  impulsive  and  adoring.  Clive  lays  the 
other  hand  for  a  moment  gently  on  the  girl's 
shoulder,  looking  at  the  youth  of  her,  and 
then  dismisses  her  with  a  light  imperious 
gesture. 

Now  go,  child. 

[Exit  Phyllis. 

CALL  BOY'S  VOICE 
(without). 

Ready,  all! 

ROXANE 

(entering  breathlessly  and  with  importance). 
Mistress,  they  wait.    It  is  the  curtain  call — 
The   curtain   call And    there's   the   prompter's 

bell ! 


38  ASHES  OF  ROSES 

CLIVB 

[Looking  at  a  faded  sweetbriar  rose  which  she 
has  taken  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and 
which  now  crumbles  to  dust  under  her  touch, 
sifting  like  ashes  through  her  fingers  to  the 
floor. 
Strange — for  a  moment  since  the  curtain  fell! 

CURTAIN 


GRETNA  GREEN 


Miss  Linley 

After  the  portrait  by  Humphrey 


GRETNA  GREEN 
CHARACTERS 

MARIA  LINLEY  (secretly  betrothed  to  Richard  Brins- 

ley  Sheridan) 

THOMAS  LINLEY,  her  father 
Avis  LINLEY,  her  aunt 

PLACE:  Bath. 

TIME:  1772. 

SCENE:  The  Linleys  home. 

A  room  that  is  a  trifle  shabby,  furnished  in  the 
eighteenth  century  manner.  Spindle-legged  chairs  up- 
holstered in  faded  damask. 

In  the  center  background  a  door  opening  on  the 
road  without.  Windows  each  side  of  it  curtained  with 
pale  blue  muslin  flowered  with  pink  roses.  Under  the 
window  at  right  a  spinet  with  music  on  the  open  rack, 
and  piles  of  music  placed  on  top  of  the  spinet  itself. 

At  left  a  hearth  with  a  fire  burning.  Toward  back- 
ground a  door. 

At  right,  against  the  wall,  an  inlaid  spindle-legged 
writing  desk  and  chair. 

Toward  the  center  of  the  room,  left,  and  facing 
audience,  a  winged  chair  upholstered  in  flowered  chintz. 


42  GRETNA  GREEN 

Toward  the  center  of  the  room,  right,  also  facing 
audience,  a  chintz-covered  spindle-legged  chair. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  Avis  Linley  is  seated  with 
a  sampler  in  her  hand  on  chair,  left,  while  near  her 
at  right,  sits  Maria  Linley,  with  a  book  in  her  hand. 
Branched  candlesticks  on  hearthshelf  and  spinet  shed 
a  soft  radiance  over  the  room.  From  outside  the 
Autumn  wind  is  heard  blowing  in  fitful  gusts. 

Avis  Linley,  who  has  fallen  asleep  over  her  work, 
is  a  woman  of  almost  fifty,  slender  and  upright  as  a 
willow  wand.  Her  hair,  faintly  touched  with  gray, 
waves  over  a  broad  white  brow.  Her  face,  clear-cut 
as  a  cameo,  is  faintly  tinged  with  pink.  She  wears  a 
dress  of  pale  blue  chintz  opening  over  a  white  petticoat. 
Maria  Linley,  her  niece,  has  her  aunt's  clear-cut  cameo- 
like  features,  the  same  delicate  flush  on  her  face.  She 
is  young,  charming,  and  in  spite  of  her  success  in  public, 
rather  diffident,  with  the  manner  of  one  who  stands 
in  positive  fear  of  her  elders.  She  is  reading  aloud  as 
the  curtains  rise,  and  her  voice  suggests  the  singer.  It 
is  full,  sweet,  resonant.  She  wears  a  white  dress  flow- 
ered in  scarlet  roses,  over  a  scarlet  quilted  petticoat. 
Her  dark  hair  is  unpowdered. 

MARIA 

(reading). 

But  all  this  happened  very  long  ago 

In  Greece's  golden  age,  when  to  and  fro 


GRETNA  GREEN  43 

Walked  nymphs  and  shepherds,  Phyllis,  Corydon, 
And   strange    cold   elves   on    whom    the    pale    moon 
shone 

[She  pauses.  Then  in  the  same  low  musical 
voice  essays  to  call  her  aunt,  leaning  forward 
half-timidly  as  she  does  so. 

Aunt  Avis !    Oh,  Aunt  Avis.    She's  asleep ! 
Perhaps  if  I  go  droning  on  she'll  keep 
So.     But  how  can  I  read  when  thoughts  roam  far! 
Oh,  let  my  pent  heart  speak  the  things  that  are — 
And  substitute  my  own  words  for  this  book. 

[She  still  holds  the  book,  and  continues  to  speak 
lullingly,  as  if  she  still  read  aloud. 

The  lines  all  run  together  when  I  look. 

I  will  pretend  to  read  and  lull  her  sleep, 

Nor  dare  to  stop.     Have  I  the  strength  to  creep 

Up  to  my  room,  and  there  prepare  to  go? 

I  never  knew  an  hour  to  pass  so  slow ! 

And  Richard  said  we  were  to  meet  at  ten 

And  take  the  chaise  for  Gretna  Green.    Or  then 

If  that  should  fail,  we'll  cross  the  sea  to  France. 

And  either  way  'tis  Richard  and  Romance! 

Poor  Aunt!    (Looks  at  her.)    What  lover  ever  sighed 

for  her  ? 

I'm  sure  she  never  felt  the  least,  least  stir 
Of  joy,  or  hope.    Why  all  her  time  is  spent 
In  making  elder  wine,  or  liniment, 
Or  playing  on  the  harpsichord  some  tune 
As  faded  as  herself.    I  think  she'd  swoon 


44  GRETNA  GREEN 

If  she  could  guess  what  is  a-foot  to-night. 
Or  else  she'd  tell  my  father.    That's  a  plight 
That  I  grow  pale  to  think  on.     Nay,  'tis  time 

That  I  were  going !     (Clock  strikes.)     There's 

the  half-hour's  chime 

(Looks  cautiously  at  her  aunt.) 

And  aunt  still  sleeps !    Well,  those  who  love  must  dare. 
I  can  creep  past  again  behind  her  chair 
And  lift  the  latch  as  quiet  as  a  mouse. 

(She  puts  down  her  book,  after  rising  quietly.) 

Listen !    There's  not  a  stir  in  all  the  house ! 
Father  must  be  a-bed.    I'll  fetch  my  cloak. 

[She  pauses,  center.  Her  aunt  still  sleeps 
soundly.  Watching  her,  with  great  caution 
Maria  tiptoes  to  the  door  at  left,  and  exits. 
For  a  moment  her  aunt  continues  to  slumber, 
then  slowly  opens  her  eyes,  drowsily  stifles 
a  yawn,  and  speaks  sleepily. 

Avis 

Child,  did  I  doze? 

[Hearing  no  answer  she  looks  at  Maria's  vacant 
chair,  and  speaks  with  the  confusion  of  sleep 
still  upon  her. 

I  thought  that  someone  spoke! 
I  must  have  dreamed  it.     (Yawns  drowsily.)    Though 

the  wind  blows  drear 
The  Autumn  stars  shine  frostily,  and  clear.  .   .  . 


GRETNA  GREEN  45 

[She  rises,  takes  her  work,  and  pauses  to  look 
out  the  window  at  right.  Maria  steals  in  on 
tiptoe,  ready  for  departure.  She  is  fastening  a 
scarlet  cloak  with  a  hood,  and  does  not  per- 
ceive her  aunt  till  she  is  almost  at  the  outer 
door. 

Avis 
Child! 

MARIA 

(greatly  startled). 
Why,  Aunt  Avis! 

Avis 

Can  I  trust  my  sight! 
That  hood!    That  cloak!    And  at  this  time  of  night! 

MARIA 

(faltering). 

I  do  protest  'twas  but  to  take  the  air 
For  a  brief  moment. 

Avis 
(with  meaning). 

Or  a  coach  and  pair. 

MARIA 

(aghast:  faltering). 
A  coach— and Oh,  Aunt  Avis!    Who  has  told? 


46  GRETNA  GREEN 

Avis 

(composedly). 

Why,  no  one,  child.    I  am  not  yet  too  old 
To  read  the  signs  where  signs  are  to  be  seen, 
And  this  sign  plainly  points  to  Gretna  Green. 

MARIA 

(to  herself:  more  and  more  amazed). 
To  Gretna  Green !    And  yet  she  does  not  swoon ! 

Avis 
(quietly). 

'Tis  well  you  chose  a  night  without  a  moon. 
Yet  why  go  thus? 

MARIA 
(on  the  verge  of  tears). 

There  was  no  other  way ; 
For  Richard  spoke  to  father  yesterday. 
I  listened,  trembling,  and  my  father  said 
That  he  would  never  see  his  daughter  wed 
To  anyone  as  portionless  and  poor 
As  Richard  Sheridan.     (Sobs.)    Or  so  obscure. 

Avis 
And  was  this  all? 

MARIA 

Yes,  all.    Naught  else  I  swear. 
So  it  was  either  Gretna,  or  despair. 
Dick  said :  "  At  ten !  "    And  I  could  not  refuse 


GRETNA  GREEN  47 

Avis 
The  chaise !    At  ten !    Then  you  Ve  no  time  to  lose ! 

MARIA 
(utterly  bewildered). 

"  No  time  to  lose /  "  Oh,  she's  gone  quite,  quite 

mad! 

[Avis  crosses  swiftly  to  desk.  Opens  drawer. 
Takes  out  a  jeweled  trinket  and  money. 
Crosses  to  her  niece. 

Avis 

Here,  child,  is  a  small  trinket  that  I  had 
When  I  was  young.     'Tis  for  a  wedding  gift. 
And  these  few  sovereigns  may  make  a  rift 
Of  cheerful  sunshine  on  some  rainy  day. 

MARIA 

(with  passionate  gratitude). 
Aunt  Avis! 

[A  step  is  heard  at  left. 

Avis 

Nay,  be  quick !    You  must  not  stay ! 
Your  father's  coming.    Kiss  me,  child.    Adieu! 
All  my  heart's  love  and  blessings  go  with  you. 

[Exit  Maria,  center.  Avis  has  just  time  to 
snatch  up  her  work  when  Thomas  Linley 
enters.  He  is  a  lordly  person  in  a  suit  of 


48  GRETNA  GREEN 

dark  brown  velvet.     He  crosses  at  once  to 
fire. 

LlNLEY 

Zounds!     Not  in  bed  yet,  Avis? 

(He  stands,  rubbing  his  hands.) 

We'll  have  snow. 
(yawns.) 

On  such  a  night — full  thirty  years  ago — 
Do  you  remember — you  were  fain  to  run 
To  Gretna  with  that  linen  draper's  son? 

Avis 
Yes,  I  remember. 

LIN  LEY 
(with  self-satisfaction). 

And  I  stopped  the  chaise, 
And  brought  you  back. 

Avis 

To  empty,  loveless  days. 
Yes,  I  remember. 

LINLEY 
(yawning). 
Where's  Maria? 

Avis 
(with  subdued  fire). 

Safe! 


GRETNA  GREEN  49 

LlNLEY 

(a  bit  startled). 
What  do  you  mean? 

Avis 

Why,  brother,  how  you  chafe 
At  the  least  word.    Where  should  Maria  be  ? 

LINLEY 

Lord,  the  young  baggage  dares  not  cope  with  me ! 
I'm  master  of  my  own. 
(There  comes  the  sound  of  wheels  passing  without.) 

Zounds,  Avis!    Hark! 
What's  that  without? 

Avis 
The  wind  wails  through  the  dark. 

LINLEY 
But  I  heard  sounds  above  the  wind's  shrill  cry. 

Avis 
Naught  but  the  post  chaise,  brother,  passing  by. 


QUICK  CURTAIN 


COUNSEL  RETAINED 


Edmund  Burke 
From  the  portrait  by  George  Roraney 


COUNSEL  RETAINED 

CHARACTERS 

PEG  WOFFINGTON 

RICHARD  GREVILLE 

EDMUND  BURKE 

Some  unseen  gallants,  admirers  of  Peg  Woffington 

PLACE:  London. 

TIME  :  1750.    A  cold  Spring  night. 

SCENE  :  The  apartment  of  Edmund  Burke. 

A  room  that  gives  evidence  of  extreme  poverty.  It 
is  on  the  ground  floor  of  what  was  once  a  fine  man- 
sion, but  is  now  a  lodging-house  dreary  and  down-at- 
heel.  At  background,  left,  a  French  window  with 
rusty  lock  and  broken  panes,  one  of  which  is  stuffed 
with  an  old  hat.  At  right  background  a  couch  with  a 
faded  and  tattered  damask  cover. 

At  left  center  a  hearth  with  a  low  fire.  Andirons. 
A  battered  iron  kettle  on  a  hob.  A  dilapidated  hearth- 
broom.  Drawn  near  the  hearth  and  facing  audience 
a  highbacked  chair  with  arms,  the  remains  of  what 
was  once  a  fine  carved  piece  of  furniture.  Tossed  over 
the  back  of  it  a  lawyer's  black  gown,  very  frayed. 

53 


54  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

At  right,  near  background,  a  door  opening  into  the 
hall  of  the  house.  Near  foreground  a  cupboard  with 
a  few  dishes,  etc. 

In  the  center  of  the  room  a  black  table  with  an  iron 
strong  box,  a  pile  of  battered  law  books,  briefs,  port- 
folios, papers.  A  chair  drawn  up  to  the  right  of  this. 

On  the  table  and  mantelshelf  are  stubs  of  candles, 
two  in  battered  pewter  candlesticks,  and  one  in  the 
neck  of  a  bottle. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  the  room  is  in  absolute 
darkness,  save  for  the  red  spark  of  the  fire  burning 
jewel-like  in  the  gloom.  A  moment  afterwards  a  hand 
from  without  tries  the  lock  of  the  French  window,  and 
wrenches  the  window  open.  A  woman  in  a  dark  cloak 
enters  quickly,  and  lets  in  a  flood  of  Spring  moonlight 
that  falls  in  a  broad  shaft  across  the  floor.  She  has  no 
time  to  close  the  window,  but  steps  quickly  into  the 
shadows  by  the  fire,  and  stands  silent  and  motionless, 
her  face  hidden  by  the  hood  of  her  cloak.  From  outside 
comes  an  excited  tumult  of  men's  voices. 


FIRST  VOICE 
Peg !    M  istress  Woffington ! 

[Richard  Greville  steps  through  the  window,  a 
fine-looking  young  dandy  in  king's  blue 
velvet,  with  white  wig,  small  sword,  flashing 
shoe-buckles.  He  gives  a  quick  look  about 
him,  does  not  perceive  the  hooded  figure  and 
speaks  back  through  the  window. 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  55 

GREVILLE 

She  isn't  here. 

(With  another  quick  glance  at  the  room.) 
Some  pettifogger's  lodgings.    Gad!     It's  clear 
That  she  won't  let  us  chair  her  through  the  town. 

VOICES 
(without). 
Huzzah  for  Woffington! 

FIRST  VOICE 

Come  on! 

SECOND  VOICE 

We'll  drown 
Our  ardor  at  the  Crown  or  Serpentine. 

[This   is   hailed  with   a    cheer   that   instantly 
grows  fainter  as  its  givers  move  rapidly  away. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with  involuntary  indignation). 
What!    Will  they  drown  my  memory  in  wine! 

GREVILLE 

(surprised  and  entranced). 
Peg! 


56  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 
(sharply). 

S-sh,  I  tell  you !    I  will  not  be  found. 
Wait  till  they  leave.    I'm  weary  of  this  round 
Of  cheering  and  of  torchlight.    Let  me  be. 

[As  she  sinks  into  the  chair  near  hearth  the 
moonlight  shows  her  wonderful  mobile  face. 
The  sparkle  of  excitement  and  the  immortal 
youth  of  the  artist  make  her  look  younger 
than  she  really  is.  She  gives  the  effect  of 
being  not  more  than  two  and  twenty.  Her 
thin  black  silk  hooded  cloak  lined  in  flame- 
scarlet  satin  falls  back  and  reveals  that  over 
a  black  taffeta  petticoat  she  wears  an  over- 
dress of  black  gauze  on  which  are  thickly  em- 
broidered broad  love-knots  of  silver.  She  has 
a  black  lace  scarf  caught  with  a  huge  scarlet 
rose.  Above  the  darkness  of  her  dress  her 
neck  rises  superbly  white.  She  wears  no 
jewels.  Her  dark  hair  is  unpowdered.  Her 
little  slippers  are  of  the  finest  make,  and 
rest  lightly  on  the  ground  like  two  black  but- 
terflies. They  are  without  buckles. 

GREVILLE 
(bending  over  her). 
Why,  Peg!     Sweet  Woffington! 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  57 

WOFFINGTON 

(closing  her  eyes  for  a  moment  and  leaning  back 
wearily  in  the  chair). 

Ah,  can't  you  see 

An  actress  may  grow  tired?    I'm  fagged  to  death! 
(Sudden  impish  humor  lights  her  face.    She  opens  her 

eyes.) 

Besides,  you  know,  I  wish  to  save  my  breath. 
I  want  a  little  left  with  which  to  speak. 
My  case  against  Miss  Spleen  comes  off  next  week. 

GREVILLE 

Gad!    So  it  does.     I'm  stupid  to  forget. 
Have  you  engaged  your  counsel? 

WOFFINGTON 

Nay,  not  yet. 
Sure,  Mr.  Greville,  I  have  had  no  time. 

(Sagely.) 
But  I'll  be  ready  when  the  hour  shall  chime. 

GREVILLE 
Who  will  you  take? 

WOFFINGTON 

(with  a  gleam). 

'Faith,  set  your  mind  at  rest. 
I'll  choose  the  one  who  can  defend  me  best! 
Be  sure  of  that. 


58  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

GREVILLE 
How  did  you  come  here? 

WOFFINGTON 

I 

Stepped  in  to  let  the  crowd  go  sweeping  by, 
And  did  what  women  can  do  when  they  will. 

GREVILLE 
And  what  was  that? 

WOFFINGTON 
(with  a  deliberate  brogue). 

I  managed  to  keep  still! 

GREVILLE 

(glancing  scornfully  about  the  room). 
Who  do  you  think  can  own  this — caravan? 

WOFFINGTON 

Sure,  I  don't  know.     It  must  be  some  poor  man 
Who's  having  a  hard  time  to  make  things  meet. 
Well,  may  kind  fortune  set  him  on  his  feet! 
I  was  poor  once.     (Pensively.) 

VOICES 

(in  distance,  without). 
Huzzah ! 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  59 

WOFFINGTON 

I  must  stay  here 

Until  the  streets  without  begin  to  clear. 
Fetch  me  a  chair.    Come  back  in  half  an  hour. 
Meanwhile  I'll  rest. 

GREVILLE 

I  will  obey. 

WOFFINGTON 
(slight  brogue). 

More  power 
To  you,  Dick  Greville. 

[Greville  smiles  delightedly,  kisses  her  hand, 
and  exits  through  French  window,  which  he 
half  closes,  so  that  W  offing  ton  is  left  partly 
in  light,  partly  in  shadow.  The  moment  he 
is  gone  a  key  turns  in  the  lock  of  the  door, 
right.  fToffington  starts,  looks  towards  door, 
and  draws  her  cloak  about  her  prepared  for 
flight  if  flight  prove  necessary.  Edmund 
Burke  enters,  young,  shabby,  careworn,  wear- 
ing a  black  suit  and  a  black  cloak  seen  sharply 
for  a  moment  as  he  takes  a  flint  from  his 
pocket  and  tries  to  strike  a  light.  He  has 
not  seen  Woffington,  who  instantly  draws  his 
old  gown  about  her,  and  slips  her  arm  into 
its  sleeves.  She  stoops  forward,  rubs  her 
handkerchief  in  the  ash  that  has  sifted  out 
beyond  the  hearth,  puts  a  smirch  of  it  on  her 


60  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

hands,  tucks  her  feet  under  her,  and  hud- 
dling deep  in  the  chair  assumes  a  forlorn 
look,  closing  her  eyes.  She  has  slyly  man- 
aged to  pick  up  the  hearth  broom,  and  it  lies 
against  her  knee.  She  might,  seen  in  the 
shadow,  be  a  crossing  sweeper,  instead  of  an 
actress.  Meanwhile  Burke  has  lighted  the 
stump  of  candle  standing  in  the  neck  of  a 
bottle.  As  soon  as  it  is  lit  he  looks  about 
and  sees  Woffington. 

BURKE 
(astonished). 

What  is  this? 

WOFFINGTON 

(with   the  effect  of  astonishment,  bewilderment,  the 
"  Where  am  1 "  look  of  a  person  just  wakened). 

Why,  oh! 

(She  looks  at  him  in  consternation,  pretends  to  gather 
her  wits  together.  Speaks  coaxingly,  as  one  afraid 
of  a  reprimand.) 

There  was  a  crowd  outside,  and  so — and  so 

I  stepped  in  here  a  moment,  and  'twas  warm, 

And  I  dozed  off 

BURKE 

I'm  sure  j^ou  meant  no  harm. 
[He  crosses,  closes  the  window,  but  does  not 
try   to   lock  it.      Then  goes  to   hearth  and 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  61 

lights  the  stumps  of  candles  on  the  hearth- 
shelf. 

WOFFINGTON 

(very  Irish  throughout). 
None  in  the  least,  sir. 

BURKE 

And  your  name  is 

WOFFINGTON 

Meg 

Some  people  call  me,  and  the  others  Peg. 
I  like  Meg  best. 

[She  looks  at  him  with  the  engagingness  of  a 
gamin. 

BURKE 
(kindly). 

Well,  Meg,  I  greatly  fear 
That  I  can  only  offer  you  small  cheer. 

WOFFINGTON 
I  don't  mind  that. 

BURKE 

Stale  bread,  stale  cheese,  scant  light. 
[He  has  crossed  to  cupboard,  right,  and  while 
he  goes  on  talking  to  her  sets  between  them 
on  the  table  cracked  plates,  a  loaf  of  bread, 
and  some  cheese. 
What  do  you  do? 


62  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 

(with  an  inspiration). 

I — sweep  the  boards  at  night! 

BURKE 
A  crossing  sweeper? 

WOFFINGTON 
(looking  down  on  his  cloak). 

'Faith,  I  know  'twas  bold 
To  take  this  cloak:  but  I  was  tired  and  cold, 
And  I 

BURKE 

(with  a  whimsical  glance  at  his  supper  table). 
Ah,  the  poor  know  the  poor.    Sit  still. 

WOFFINGTON 
You're  very  kind. 

BURKE 

I  know  how  night  can  chill 
The  very  marrow. 

WOFFINGTON 
Are  you  Irish,  too? 

BURKE 
Yes. 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  63 

WOFFINGTON 

(slowly). 

If  it's  not — asking  too  much  of  you 
What  is  your  name,  sir  ? 

BURKE 

Burke.     Unknown  to  fame. 
Just  Edmund  Burke. 

WOFFINGTON 
(sagely). 

That's  a  good  Irish  name. 

And  it  will  bring  you  luck.    Now,  tell  me  true, 
What  do  you  need  most? 

BURKE 

Clients.    One  or  two 
Friends  in  the  great  world. 

WOFFINGTON 

Have  you  none? 

BURKE 

Nay,  none. 
WOFFINGTON 
(encouragingly). 
Keep  up  your  heart.    Perhaps  you'll  meet  with  one. 


64  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

BURKE 
(kindly). 
Why,  thank  you,  Meg. 

WOFFINGTON 

You're  welcome. 

BURKE 

(bowing). 

Will  you  share 
My  bread  and  cheese?    (They  begin  to  eat.) 

WOFFINGTON 

You  offer  me  your  fare 
As  if  I  were  a  lady! 

BURKE 

Aren't  you? 

Isn't  a  lady  one  whose  words  ring  true 
From  a  kind  heart? 

WOFFINGTON 

There's  Mistress  Woffingto 
She's  kind,  they  say,  and  yet  she  isn't  one. 

BURKE 
(indulgently). 
Isn't  a  lady? 

WOFFINGTON 

You  have  seen  her? 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  65 

BURKE 

Yes. 

As  Harry  Wildair,  wearing  a  boy's  dress 
With  youthful  swagger!    Lovely!    Debonair! 
The  darling  of  the  wits! 

WOFFINGTON 
(dryly:  with  malice). 

Then  I  dare  swear 
You've  never  seen  her  in  her  right  clothes  ? 

BURKE 

No. 
Not  yet. 

WOFFINGTON 
But,  sir 

BURKE 

The  times  are  hard,  and  so 

(He  looks  down  regretfully  at  his  shabby  clothes,  and 

makes  a  rueful  gesture.) 
When  I've  more  silver  I  shall  go  each  night. 

WOFFINGTON 
(with  deep  conviction). 

You'd  spend  your  good  coin  on  a  worthless  sight. 
She's  just  an  actress.     (She  manages  to  keep  her  hands 
in  the  shadow.) 


66  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

BURKE 

(quietly). 

Tell  me  what  you  mean. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with  the  proper  amount  of  hesitation). 
Well,  on  the  stage,  sir,  she  may  be  a  queen, 

But  off  the  stage !    A  zany,  underbred, 

Without  a  scrap  of  learning  in  her  head. 

BURKE 
(indignantly). 
And  I  suppose  her  beauty's  false  as  well? 

WOFFINGTON 

Sure,  they  do  say  (though  you  can  never  tell!) 
That  underneath  the  powder  and  the  paint 
You'll  find  a — something  that  is  not  a  saint. 

BURKE 
(furious). 
Be  silent! 

[He  rises  j  pale  with  anger. 

WOFFINGTON 

Oh,  is  Woffington  your  friend? 
Sure,  sir,  I  had  no  meaning  to  offend. 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  67 

BURKE 

(more  quietly). 

Peg  Woffington  is  not  a  friend  of  mine. 
I  saw  her  once  upon  the  stage.    So  fine, 
So  true  an  artist  that  the  gossips  slur 
Her  name  through  arrant  jealousy  of  her 

(With  growing  power.) 
Who  is  as  far  above  them  as  the  light 
Of  the  first  stars.    Her  genius  burns  as  bright 
As  does  Orion.    Can  you  look  at  her 

WOFFINGTON 
(to  herself). 
(I  often  do!) 

BURKE 
(sweeping  on,  unheeding). 

— without  a  great  heart-stir 
Of  Irish  pride,  to  think  what  high  renown 
Is  worn  by  lovely  Peg  of  Dublin  town? 
(All  the  fire  that  will  one  day  be  his  flames  through 

his  words.) 
From  Ireland,  land  of  all  that's  brave  and  sweet.  .  .  . 

WOFFINGTON 
(provocatively) . 

Famed  for  its  lawyers,  actresses,  and — peat! 
(He  turns  from  her  indignantly.) 
Sure,  don't  be  angry.    I  am  Irish,  too. 


68  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

BURKE 

(turning  on  her). 

Take  shame,  then,  to  yourself,  to  think  that  you 
Speak  lightly  of  Peg  Woffington 

WOFFINGTON 

(suddenly  standing  up,  returning  to  her  natural  voice 
and  manner,  and  tossing  off  his  cloak  so  that  the 
black  and  silver  and  scarlet  of  her  costume  shows 
up  wondrously  in  the  candlelight). 

Nay,  hold! 

I  think  I  know  all  that  I  need  be  told ! 
I'll  choose  the  one  who  can  defend  me  best! 

BURKE 

(with  icy  pride). 

Madam,  I'm  glad  that  we  have  proved  a  jest 
To  pass  your  time,  my  poverty  and  I. 

WOFFINGTON 
(with  a  cry). 
How  can  you  think  that! 

BURKE 
(bowing  sardonically). 

And  the  moments  fly 

When  one  is  well  amused.     I  trust  that  you 
Have  spent  your  evening  profitably.     Do 
Remember  me  at  court.     (He  bows  again.) 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  69 

WOFFINGTON 

I  shall,  sir! 

[They  have  been  too  engrossed  with  their  own 
emotions  to  notice  Greville,  who  has  opened 
the  window  and  stepped  in. 

GREVILLE 

Peg, 
I've  brought  your  chair. 

BURKE 
(suddenly  looking  at  her  indignantly). 

You  said  your  name  was  Meg. 

WOFFINGTON 

(with  a  return  of  her  gamin  accent). 
Well,  Meg  or  Peg,  'tis  very  much  the  same: 
And  even  Shakespeare  says :  "  What's  in  a  name  ?  " 

(Again  the  fine  lady.) 
Mr.  Burke,  Mr.  Greville. 

(Stiff  bows.    Woffington  indicates  Burke.) 

He's  the  one 

Who's  to  be  lawyer  for  Peg  Woffington.     (Indicates 
herself.) 

BURKE 

(staring  at  her,  fascinated). 
Peg  Woffington — you  don't  mean 


70  COUNSEL  RETAINED 

WOFFINGTON 

(laughing). 

Man,  you're  blind! 
I'm  Peg! 

(She  sweeps  him  a  curtsey.) 
/ 

BURKE 

And  I,  who  said  you  were  unkind 
To  mock 


WOFFINGTON 
Find  a  client  here  instead ! 

The  suit's  against  Miss  Spleen.    Say  what  you  said 
To  Meg,  the  crossing  sweeper,  and  all  will  be  well. 
Good  night. 

[Greville  pauses,  waiting  for  her  at  the  window. 

BURKE 

(gazing  at  her). 

Good  night.    Your  beauty's  like  a  spell 
That  holds  thanks  tongue-tied. 

WOFFINGTON 
(drolly). 

Wouldn't  you  have  known 
We  both  kissed  Ireland's  gem — the  Blarney  Stone. 

(Curtseys.) 
Good  night,  then. 


COUNSEL  RETAINED  71 

[The  men  bow  to  each  other,  and  Woffington 
starts  to  join  Greville.  Then  turns  impetu- 
ously, runs  back  to  the  table,  tears  the  crim- 
son rose  from  her  dress,  kisses  it  lightly  and 
tosses  it  to  the  table  with  a  charming  gesture. 
Here's  success !  And  great  renown ! 

[She  runs  back,  and  exits  hastily  by  way  of  the 
window,  Greville  following.  Burke  stands 
for  an  instant  looking  after  her.  Then  he 
lifts  the  rose  to  his  lips. 

BURKE 
Peg  Woffington !    The  rose  of  Dublin  Town. 

[He  stands,  smiling  dreamily  at  the  rose  as  the 
curtain  falls. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT 
PAINTERS 


George  Roniney 

From  the   portrait  by   himself 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT 
PAINTERS 

CHARACTERS 

GEORGE  ROMNEY  (the  Prince  of  Court  Painters) 

MARY  ROMNEY,  his  wife 

LUCY  ELRIDGE,  a  neighbor's  child. 

PLACE  :  A  village  in  the  north  of  England. 

TIME:  1799. 

SCENE:  Mary  Romney's  home. 

The  living-room  of  a  peasant-like  cottage  which, 
with  its  dark  floor  and  walls  of  time-stained  wood, 
and  its  great  rafters,  suggests  the  seventeenth  rather 
than  the  eighteenth  century. 

In  center  background  a  dark  oak  door  opens  on 
a  wild  bit  of  moorland  stretching  towards  the  western 
skyline.  On  each  side  of  this  door  long  narrow  lat- 
ticed windows  swinging  inward,  and  curtained  with 
faintly  flowered  muslin. 

At  left  a  wide-mouthed  hearth  built  of  cobblestones. 
Iron  andirons  and  an  iron  kettle  on  a  hob.  On  the 
hearthshelf  candles  in  pewter  candlesticks,  and  a  plate 
or  two.  Everywhere  simplicity  and  frugality  is  mani- 
fest. A  dark  wooden  settle  by  fire,  facing  audience. 

A  dark-stained  table  in  the  center  of  the  room.  It 
75 


76        THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

is  round,  and  made  of  plain  wood.  There  are  also  in 
other  parts  of  the  room  some  quaint  sturdy  chairs  of 
dark  wood  set  against  the  wall. 

Against  the  right  wall  a  dark  oak  cupboard,  contain- 
ing earthenware  dishes,  and  a  little  food — such  as  a 
loaf  of  wheaten  bread,  butter,  cheese,  and  honey.  Be- 
yond this  a  churn,  and  a  spinning  wheel  for  Mary 
Romney's  use. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  a  low  fire  is  burning  on 
the  hearth,  and  through  the  open  door  and  western 
windows  the  light  of  late  afternoon  shines  on  Mary 
Romney  as  she  sits  at  her  spinning  wheel,  right.  She 
is  not  a  young  woman,  but  age  has  touched  her  lightly. 
Her  figure  is  still  straight  and  supple.  Her  snow- 
white  hair  only  adds  to  the  charming  effect  of  the  ivory 
pallor  of  her  face.  Her  eyes  have  retained  their  look 
of  youth,  of  a  spirit  that  is  never  done  hoping.  There 
is  about  her  an  air  of  gentle  strength.  She  wears  a 
dress  of  dove-gray  homespun,  with  a  white  linen  ker- 
chief crossed  on  her  breast.  She  has  no  trinkets  or 
adornments  of  any  kind,  and  needs  none.  As  the  cur- 
tain rises  she  is  singing,  her  voice  blending  pleasantly 
with  the  hum  of  the  wheel: 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Rest!    Rest!    Twilight  is  best.     The  day's  storms  die. 
Sleep.     Sleep.     White  stars  will  keep  their  watch  on 
high. 

[While  Mary  Romney  sings,  Lucy  Elridge  ap- 
pears on  the  threshold.     She  is  a  small  child 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        77 

of  seven  or  eight  years.  She  wears  a  high- 
waisted  frock  of  white  muslin,  plainly  made, 
and  white  stockings  with  low  black  slippers 
laced  with  black  ribbon  above  her  ankles. 
On  her  head  a  mob  cap  of  white  swiss.  She 
carries  a  little  wicker  basket  with  flowers 
in  it. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

(rising). 
Come  in. 

LUCY 

(entering). 
What  do  you  sing? 

MARY  ROMNEY 

A  lullaby 
That  sends  tired  children  off  to  sleep. 

LUCY 

(presenting  flowers). 

YouVe  none, 

You  live  alone — away  from  everyone. 
But  I  love  you.    And  that  is  why  I  came. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
Thank  you,  dear  Lucy. 


78       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

LUCY 

And  I  love  your  name. 
Just  "  Mary   Romney."      (Dwells   on  it  musically.) 

I've  heard  people  say 

That  someone  married  you,  and  went  away. 
His  name  was  Romney,  too.    And  then  you  left 
The  place  where  you  were  living. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

What  a  weft 
Do  gossips  weave !    With  what  threads  is  it  strung ! 

LUCY 

(innocently  sage). 

It  happened  long  ago,  when  you  were  young. 
I  heard  it  all.    Something  to  you  was  sent. 
And  since  that  time  both  food  and  warmth  youVe  spent 
On  the  world's  poor.    Who  are  the  world's  poor? 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(quietly). 

Those 
To  whom  life  gives  the  thorn,  but  not  the  rose. 

LUCY 
I  do  not  understand. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

How  should  you,  dear. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        79 

LUCY 

(coaxingly,  leaning  against  Mary  Romney's  knee). 
Tell  me  about  "  When  you  were  young." 

MARY  ROMNEY 

I  fear 
I  cannot.     (Staring  before  her.)     Why,  to  think  of 

such  a  thing 

Is  like  a  dream.    Black  as  the  raven's  wing 
My  hair  was  then. 

LUCY 

And  were  your  cheeks  as  pink 
As  Mother's  are? 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Yes.     Is  it  strange  to  think 

That  I  was  young  once?    Ah,  time's  wind  can  blow 
The  reddest  roses  into  flowers  of  snow. 

LUCY 
(puzzled). 
Like  Winter? 

MARY  ROMNEY 
Aye. 

LUCY 
(innocently). 

Was  he — was  Romney  old 
And  cross  like  Gaffer  Matthew?    Did  he  scold? 


80       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

MARY  ROMNEY 

(deeply). 
No. 
(She  forgets  Lucy.    Her  face  is  lit  by  an  inner  flame.) 

He  was  young — young  as  the  morning  star, 
And  blithe  as  Spring.     (With  sudden  quiet.)     But, 

child,  those  days  are  far. 
Too  far  to  talk  about. 

(Lucy  turns  reluctantly  and  takes  her  basket.) 
Dear,  must  you  go? 

LUCY 

My  Mother  says  my  feet  are  always  slow 
Upon  the  homeward  way. 

[Mary  Romney  crosses  to  cupboard,  takes  out 
a  pat  of  butter  and  a  little  tart. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(indicating  Lucys  basket). 

Child,  will  this  hold 
A  little  pat  of  butter,  bright  as  gold, 
And  a  small  tart? 

LUCY 
I  thank  you. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Now  run  home. 

I  would  not  have  you  linger  through  the  gloam. 

[She  kisses  Lucy,  who  exits  sedately,  carrying 
her  basket.     For  a  moment  Mary  Romney 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        81 

leans  by  the  door  watching  her,  then  she  re- 
turns to  her  wheel.  The  light  of  afternoon 
has  faded  into  the  glow  of  sunset.  As  Mary 
Romney  sits  at  her  wheel  a  shadow  falls 
across  the  doorway.  She  looks  up  and  sees 
a  slim  dark  man,  worn,  but  not  bent  with 
age.  His  hair  is  grizzled,  and  hangs  loosely 
about  his  pale  passionate  face.  He  wears  a 
weatherworn  black  cloak  and  black  suit.  A 
broad  felt  hat,  with  dilapidated  brim,  a  very 
scarecrow  of  a  hat.  From  under  its  brim 
the  haunted  eyes  of  the  man  look  out  like 
the  eyes  of  a  lost  soul.  Fatigue,  hunger,  de- 
spair have  set  their  thumb-mark  on  him.  He 
belongs  to  the  Lost  Legion  of  the  world. 
Under  his  arm  he  carries  a  battered  port- 
folio of  black  leather  worn  gray  with  time 
and  exposure.  No  one  would  ever  guess  this 
apparition  to  be  Romney.  Least  of  all  does 
Romney's  wife  guess  it.  Too  many  years 
have  come  and  gone  since  their  last  meeting. 

ROMNEY 

Could  you  give  shelter  to  a  traveler 
So  worn  and  weary  that  he  scarce  can  stir 
Another  foot  along  the  road? 

(Mary  rises  and  looks  at  him  pityingly.) 

I  fear 

That  I  have  startled  you.    And  yet — look  clear 
And  see  what  begs  a  refuge !    Bone  and  shred 
Can  scarce  work  harm  to  any.     (He  coughs.) 


82       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(with  swift  compassion). 

Warmed  and  fed 
You  shall  be. 

ROMNEY 

Thank  you — greatly. 

[He  crosses  weakly  to  the  fire.  Mary  crosses 
to  the  cupboard  and  brings  him  a  plate  of 
bread  and  a  cup  of  cordial. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Sit  you  down. 

Often  do  folk  pass  by  here  from  the  town, 
Early  and  late,  and  though  I  live  alone 
I  never  have  had  cause  to  fear. 

ROMNEY 

(sits,  leaning  back,  spent). 
A  stone 

Is  what  the  world  gives  when  you  ask  for  bread ; 
Yet  you  give  this 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Eat,  and  be  comforted. 
(Cheerily.) 
"  Darkest  before  the  dawn  "  the  old  wives  say. 

ROMNEY 

I  am  a  traveler  who  has  lost  his  way, 
And  followed  ignus  fatuus  till  the  night 
Closed  in  on  me,  and  left  me  without  light. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        83 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(to  herself). 

He  wanders. 

ROMNEY 

(half -hearing  her). 
Aye.     Oh,  I  have  wandered  far, 
And  though  the  dancing  wisp-light  was  a  star, 
The  light  called  "Art." 

MARY  ROMNEY 

You  are  an  artist  ?    (He  bows.)    Then 
You  must  have  heard  of  him !    (Her  voice  thrills  with 

pride.) 

ROMNEY 

Him? 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Whom  all  men 
Praise.    The  great  Romney.     (The  name  transfigures 

her.) 

ROMNEY 

He  is  great  no  more. 

Why,  I  have  heard  he  goes  from  door  to  door 
Glad  of  a  little  charity. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(proudly). 

You  err. 

He  is  the  prince  of  all  court  painters,  sir. 
His  friends  are  lords  and  duchesses. 


84       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

They  slip 

From  him  as  rats  desert  a  rotting  ship 
That's  settling  down  and  down. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(torn). 

Is  this  thing  true? 

ROMNEY 

(his  haunted  eyes  on  her). 
Should  I  give  falsehood  as  a  coin  to  you 
Who  are  so  kind? 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(passionately). 
Where  is  he? 

ROMNEY 

Who  can  say. 
MARY  ROMNEY 
Had  he  no  wife? 

ROMNEY 

In  some  far  yesterday 
I  think  he  had.    But  when  Sir  Joshua  said : 
"  Forget  your  country  marriage,  and  instead 
Take  Art  to  wife,"  he  left  her.     Well,  his  art 
Brought  fame  and  money;  but  his  secret  heart 
Like  a  closed  house,  was  haunted  by  a  ghost.  .   .  . 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        85 

MARY  ROMNEY 

(quietly). 
Yet  there  were  other  women. 


ROMNEY 
(wearily). 

Oh,  a  host 
Of  frilled  and  furbelowed  great  ladies.  .  .  . 

MARY  ROMNEY 

One 

Of  these  was  called  the  Lady  Hamilton, 
Was  she  not?     (She  lights  a  candle  on  the  mantle- 
shelf.) 

ROMNEY 
Yes. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

And  he  loved  her? 

ROMNEY 

Her  face 

Bewitched  the  artist  in  him,  and  her  grace 
Filled  many  a  canvas. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

And  he  loved  her. 


86       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

(rousing  himself). 

No. 
He  loved  her  beauty.     (With  renewed  quiet.)     That 

was  long  ago, 
And  all  of  it  is  like  a  tale  that's  told. 

(Bitterly.) 

Only  one  love  did  Romney's  bleak  heart  hold 
And  her  he  wronged. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

And  will  he  not  return? 

ROMNEY 
(wryly). 

And  say,  "  My  wife,  whose  love  I  seemed  to  spurn, 

You  did  not  share  in  my  celebrity; 

But  now  I'm  old  and  poor.    Pray  comfort  me." 

(For  an  instant  his  face  lights  sardonically.) 

I  think  that  Romney  would  not  fall  so  low 
For  all  his  faults. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

Does  he — does  Romney  know 
Where  his  wife  lives? 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS       87 

ROMNEY 

Nay.  Somewhere  in  the  North. 
He's  lost  all  trace.  (Rises.)  'Tis  time  that  I  set  forth 
Ere  night  falls  utterly. 

(He  opens  his  portfolio,  fumbles  in  itf  takes  out  a 
sketch.) 

I  pray  you  take 

A  little  sketch,  such  as  I  used  to  make. 
'Tis  all  the  coin  I  have.    (He  coughs.) 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(amazed). 

'Tis  finely  done. 
Aye,  wondrous  fine! 

[Before  he  has  grasped  what  she  is  doing  she 
takes  another  picture  from  the  portfolio^  the 
rosy  portrait  of  a  young  and  beautiful  coun- 
try girl. 

Oh,  let  me  see  this  one! 

ROMNEY 

A  sketch  of  Romney's  wife,  made  by  himself 
From  memory.     Life-sized. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

(stooping  at  hearth  and  taking  money  from  under  loose 
stone). 

Beneath  this  shelf 
I  have  ten  pounds  and  more.     Sell  this  to  me. 

(As  if  in  explanation  of  her  strange  conduct.) 
It  is  so  young!     So  fair! 


88        THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

ROMNEY 

(looking  at  it  with  the  enthrallment  of  the  artist). 

It  cannot  be. 

I  cannot  sell  it.     It  is  Romney's  wife. 
Painted  from  memory.    And  true  to  life 
Each  contour  that  I  loved. 

MARY  ROMNEY 

You  loved! 

ROMNEY 

Yes,  I 
Am  Romney. 

[He  looks  at  the  picture  as  if  held  by  a  spell 
For  all  that  he  sees  or  hears  he  is  alone  in 
the  room. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
Romney! 

ROMNEY 

Why,  with  what  a  cry 
You  speak  my  name. 

[They  gaze  at  each  other  in  the  dim  light. 

MARY  ROMNEY 
Mine  also. 

[She  faces  him  steadily.  Romney  snatches  up 
the  candle,  looks  at  her.  Puts  it  down. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS        89 

ROMNEY 

God  is  just. 
He  leads  me,  old  and  humble,  in  the  dust 

Before  your  door 

[His  head  is  bowed  for  an  instant.  He  cannot 
look  at  her.  Slowly,  and  with  dread,  he 
raises  his  eyes,  and  meets  her  answering  look, 
her  gesture  towards  him.  Speaks  brokenly, 
uncertainly. 

I,  who  should  be  reviled.  .  .  . 
You  can  forgive  me.  ... 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(with  beautiful  maternal  tenderness). 

Why,  you  are  my  child. 
My  genius  child,  who  all  day  long  must  roam, 
And  then  at  twilight  sees  the  lights  of  home. 

ROMNEY 
Mary! 

MARY  ROMNEY 
I  ask  no  question  of  the  past. 
What  was  mine  at  the  first  is  now  mine  last 

ROMNEY 
(still  brokenly:  to  himself). 

"  And  ministering  angels  came  to  bless " 

Ah,  but  I  have  no  right (Yet  his  eyes  implore 

her.) 


90       THE  PRINCE  OF  COURT  PAINTERS 

MARY  ROMNEY 

After  day's  stress 

Comes  peace  and  twilight.     Look,  where  the  last  bar 
Of  sunset  fades,  the  steadfast  evening  star! 

[Through  the  last  rose  of  sunset  and  the  gath- 
ering violet  of  dusk  the  white  glimmer  of  the 
evening  star  is  seen  through  the  open  door- 
way. Mary  Romney,  her  hand  on  Romney' s 
shoulder,  watches  it,  and  with  a  half  breath 
sings  very  low  and  soothingly,  her  voice  a 
crooning  murmur: 
Rest!  Rest!  Twilight  is  best.  The  day's  storms  die. 

ROMNEY 
What  do  you  sing? 

MARY  ROMNEY 
(with  ineffable  tenderness). 

A  tired  child's  lullaby. 

[The  music  of  the  song  is  faintly  continued  by 
the  orchestra  as  the  curtain  falls. 


Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay's  FRANKLIN 

A  play  in  four  acts.  With  frontispiece  of  R.  Tait  Mc- 
Kenzie's  statue  of  the  youthful  Franklin.  $1.75 

She  shows  us  Franklin  as  a  printer's  apprentice  in  his 
"Poor  Richard"  days,  his  love  and  marriage  under  dramatic 
circumstances,  his  experiments  with  electricity,  his  resource- 
fulness when  surrounded  by  conspirators,  and  his  triumph 
in  France. 

New  York  Times:  "With  a  fine  degree  of  skill  she  has  picked  out  and 
strung  together  the  important  dramatic  climaxes  in  his  life  .  .  .  vivid 
pictures  always  animated  by  the  true  dramatic  virtue  of  action  and  suspense." 

The  Theatre  Magazine:  "Lastly,  the  character  of  Franklin  himself  is 
delightfully  drawn,  a  splendid  part  for  some  real  actor  to  bite  into.  .  .  . 
Our  own  idea  is  that  Franklin  only  needs  his  proper  interpreter  to  become 
a  second  Disraeli,  box  office  receipts,  and  all." 

Frederick  H.  Koch  (Editor):    CAROLINA  FOLK-PLAYS 

Elizabeth  A.  Lays'  "When  Witches  Ride"  (3m.,  1  w.)— 
Harold  Williamson's  "Peggy,"  the  tragedy  of  a  tenant  farmer's 
daughter  (4  m.,  2  w.  and  a  boy)— Heffner's  "Dod  Cast  Ye 
Both!",  a  moonshiner's  comedy  (6  m.,  1  w.,  a  thicket  in  the 
mountains)— Dougald  Macmillan's  "Off  Nag's  Head  or  the 
Bell  Buoy."  Of  an  old  woman,  a  mad  storm  and  land  pirates 
(2  m.,  4  w.)— Paul  Green's  "The  Last  of  the  Lowries" 
(Croatan  Outlaws,  1  m.,  3  w.). 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton  in  The  Drama:  "Frederick  Koch  is  doing  a 
wonderful  work.  .  .  .  He  is  teaching  young  people  to  write  their  own 
plays  about  their  own  people  and  their  lives,  stage  them,  costume  them,  act 
them." 

Paul  L.  Benjamin  in  The  Survey:  "A  rich  and  splendid  vein  of  our 
native  drama."  $1.75 

George  Middleton  and  Guy  Bolton:   POLLY  WITH  A  PAST 

and  ADAM  AND  EVA.     Two  three-act  comedies. 
Two  bracing  happy  plays,  full  of  laughs,  good  reading 
and  easy  for  production  by  amateurs. 

"Polly  With  a  Past"  is  an  amusing  satire  on  notoriety  as  well  as  a 
charming  love  story.  Polly's  past — actually  a  thing  of  invention — makes  her 
decidedly  interesting.  This  play,  produced  by  David  Belasco,  ran  for  forty 
consecutive  weeks  in  New  York  and  has  been  played  all  over  America  and 
in" England  (7m.  5  w.,  two  interiors). 

"Adam  and  Eva"  is  a  satire  on  home  life,  showing  how  a  young  man 
of  romantic  tendencies  took  charge  of  another  man's  family — with  extraordi- 
nary results  to  every  one  concerned — including  the  absent  father  who  had 
grown  tired  of  his  family  "raising  hell  instead  of  chickens  on  Long  Island." 
This  play  ran  in  New  York  for  over  three  hundred  performances,  and  has 
since  been  continuously  playing  over  America  with  great  success  (6  m.,  4  w., 
one  interior,  one  exterior).  $1.75 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

(III  '23) 


BOOKS    ON    AND    OF    SCHOOL    PLAYS 

By  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay 

HOW  TO  PRODUCE  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 

The  author  is  a  recognized  authority  on  the  production 
of  plays  and  pageants  in  the  public  schools,  and  combines  en- 
thusiastic sympathy  with  sound,  practical  instructions.  She 
tells  both  how  to  inspire  and  care  for  the  young  actor,  how 
to  make  costumes,  properties,  scenery,  where  to  find  de- 
signs for  them,  what  music  to  use,  etc.,  etc.  She  prefaces  it 
all  with  an  interesting  historical  sketch  of  the  plays-for-chil- 
dren  movement,  includes  elaborate  detailed  analyses  of  per- 
formances of  Browning's  Pied  Piper  and  Rosetti's  Pageant 
of  the  Months,  and  concludes  with  numerous  valuable  an- 
alytical lists  of  plays  for  various  grades  and  occasions. 

PATRIOTIC  PLAYS  AND  PAGEANTS 

PAGEANT  OF  PATRIOTISM  (Outdoor  and  Indoor  Versions)  : — 
*Princess  Pocahontas,  Pilgrim  Interlude,  Ferry  Farm  Epi- 
sode, *George  Washington's  Fortune,  *Daniel  Boone:  Patriot, 
Benjamin  Franklin  Episode,  Lincoln  Episode,  Final  Tableau. 

HAWTHORNE  PAGEANT  (for  Outdoor  or  Indoor  Produc- 
tion) :— Chorus  of  Spirits  of  the  Old  Manse,  Prologue  by  the 
Muse  of  Hawthorne,  In  Witchcraft  Days,  Dance  Interlude, 
Merrymount,  etc. 

The  portions  marked  with  a  star  (*)  are  one-act  plays 
suitable  for  separate  performance.  There  are  full  directions 
for  simple  costumes,  scenes,  and  staging.  12mo. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

Short  plays  in  verse  for  children  of  fourteen  or  younger : — 
"The  House  of  the  Heart  (Morality  Play) — "The  Enchanted 
Garden"  (Flower  Play)— "A  Little  Pilgrim's  Progress"  (Mor- 
ality Play)— -"A  Pageant  of  Hours"  (To  be  given  Out  of 
Doors)— "On  Christmas  Eve."  "The  Princess  and  the  Pix- 
ies." "The  Christmas  Guest"  (Miracle  Play.),  etc. 

"An  addition  to  child  drama  which  has  been  sorely  needed.  — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE  SILVER  THREAD 

AND  OTHER  FOLK  PLAYS.  "The  Silver  Thread"  (Cornish)  ; 
"The  Forest  Spring"  (Italian)  ;  "The  Foam  Maiden"  (Celtic)  ; 
"Troll  Magic"  (Norwegian)  ;  "The  Three  Wishes"  (French)  ; 
"A  Brewing  of  Brains"  (English)  ;  "Siegfried"  (German) ; 
"The  Snow  Witch"  (Russian). 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


PRODUCING  IN  LITTLE  THEATRES 

By  Clarence  Stratton.    With  70  illustrations.  $2.90 

Of  value  to  all  working  in  or  going  to  Little  Theatres,  and  with 
its  wealth  of  illustrations,  including  scenes  from  recent  plays,  of 
interest  to  all  lovers  of  the  theatre.  It  includes  an  annotated  list 
of  200  suitable  plays. 

Brander  Matthews  in  New  York  Times:  "A  model  manual, 
sane  and  sensible,  helpful  and  practical." 

THE  LITTLE  THEATRE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES 

By  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay.  With  many  illustrations.  $2.50 

An  account  of  nearly  sixty  little  theatres,  with  something  of 
their  repertory,  stage  effects  and  expense  accounts.  With  discus- 
sions of  The  Little  Theatre  Movement,  The  Northampton  Munici- 
pal Theatre,  The  New  Theatre,  Repertory,  etc. 

Walter  Prichard  Eaton:  "Not  only  a  great  value  to  the  student, 
but  a  great  stimulation  to  the  Little  Theatre  Managers  and  writers, 
and  the  ambitious  amateurs  everywhere." 

COSTUMES  AND  SCENERY  FOR  AMATEURS 

By  Constance  D'Arcy  Mackay.  With  many  illustrations.  $1.76 

Mainly  simple  drawings  for  costumes,  particularly  for  American 
pageants — also  scenes  interior  or  exterior,  etc.  One  costume  or 
scene  is  made  to  "play  many  parts."  There  are  chapters  on 
Amateurs  and  The  New  Stage  Art  and  on  Costumes  and  Scenery. 

Bulletin  of  Carnegie  Library  of  Pittsburgh  (where  Thos.  Wood 
Stevens  has  his  model  theatrical  laboratory) :  "The  costumes  cover 
the  fairy  and  folk  play,  the  historical  play  or  pageant.  The  color 
and  material  are  fully  described,  and  in  many  cases  patterns  may 
be  obtained.  .  .  .  The  scenes  can  readily  be  adapted  to  small 


PLAY  PRODUCTION  IN  AMERICA 

By  Arthur  Edwin  Krows.    With  many  illustrations.          $3.50 

The  Play  Is  Accepted,  The  Director  Takes  Charge,  The  Stage 
Is  Made  Ready,  Scenery,  Decoration  and  Costumes — Lighting  and 
"Effects,"  The  Stage  Crew— Managers  Begin  Their  Activities- 
Advertising;  and  Ticket  Selling — Enter  the  Audience. 

Life:    "Everything  that  pertains  to  plays  and  their  production." 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 
19  WEST  44TH  STREET  NEW    VORK 


3  2106  00 


